Chapter 3Mortgage Paid, Husband’s First Love Moved In

Before the sting of the slap had even faded, my mother-in-law burst through the door, carrying bags of groceries.

Mark had never told me she was coming.

She walked in with a wide smile, but it wasn't for me. It was for Serena, who was just emerging from the master bedroom.

“Oh, my poor, dear daughter-in-law! You’ve suffered so much.” She threw her arms around Serena, her voice dripping with affection.

I stood to the side, invisible. An outsider in my own home.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” I asked coldly.

Her head whipped around, and her smile vanished. She pointed a finger in my face. “What do you mean, what am I doing here? If I didn’t come, my grandson would be cursed to death by a wicked woman like you!” She stomped over to me, spitting as she yelled. “Raina, don’t think you’re so special just because you make a little money. You’re just a useless, barren hen who can’t even lay an egg! Mark should have gotten rid of you years ago!”

I was shaking with fury. “I made the down payment on this house! And I paid the bulk of the mortgage!” I turned to Mark. “Tell your mother to be clear. Who’s the barren hen?”

Mark just scowled, shielding Serena behind him. “That’s enough. Mom’s just looking out for me. Does it really matter who paid for the house?”

“If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even have a foothold in this city! Stop making everything about money. It’s so crass.”

Looking at the ugly faces of this family, the last flicker of warmth in my heart died.

“Let’s get a divorce,” I said, my voice flat.

Mark froze for a second, then sneered. “Fine. Get out. You won’t get a single penny.”

He was sure I wouldn’t dare leave him. In his eyes, I had nothing and no one but him.

I didn't say another word. I walked into the study and locked the door.

With trembling hands, I turned on Mark’s old phone, the one I’d given him when I upgraded. He hadn't logged out of his social media. Message after message popped up from his family group chat.

Skimming through, my blood ran cold.

Mark had posted a photo of Serena with a slightly rounded belly. The caption read: We’re finally going to be parents.

Below, a chorus of relatives cheered. His mother had sent several large digital red envelopes.

So-called severe depression. It was all a lie to cover up a three-month pregnancy.

They wanted me to keep slaving away, to pay for the upbringing of their illegitimate child.

Just then, a violent wave of nausea hit me.

I ran to the bathroom and was violently sick. A strange, sinking feeling washed over me.

I put on a mask and went to a nearby private clinic alone.

Two hours later, the doctor looked at my test results.

“Ms. Reed, you’re two months pregnant. Your hormone levels are a little unstable, though. You’ll need to rest.”

I walked out into the long hospital corridor, the flimsy piece of paper clutched in my hand.

And there, just down the hall, outside the obstetrics clinic, I saw him.

Mark was tenderly peeling a grape and placing it in Serena’s mouth.

His mother sat beside them, beaming. “Once we get that Reed woman out of the picture with nothing, we’ll have the wedding,” she schemed. “We need to do it soon. Serena’s belly will be showing, and it won’t look good in a wedding dress.”